


Death's Half-Brother, Sleep

by Jenye



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, F/M, Future Fic, The Iliad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 21:42:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5801320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenye/pseuds/Jenye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy has a way with words, but a little help from the classics never hurt anyone.</p>
<p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	Death's Half-Brother, Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> This was the brainchild of a conversation with Taylor (oktevia via Tumblr) and my need for Bellamy's gift from Gina to have an affect on Clarke. As far as I'm concerned this piece is canon and it's just a matter of time. Hope you enjoy!

 

Her fingers trace mindlessly over the wire-like scars that pepper the skin of his torso. Their color has dulled from the harsh purple to a mere shinier version of his caramel-colored skin. She used to frown at the marks, as if her hard glares would make them vanish. The memories used to twist her stomach into vicious knots, remembering the day she’d knelt over him begging whatever gods play games with their lives to switch their places.

 

Now, much like his scars, her memories sting less. She still feels their brutal stab, but with less emotion. Now she lets her lips ghost over them in a lover’s caress. Allowing herself to live in the moment, _this_ moment. A moment that wouldn’t be happening without certain, painful experiences.   She hates the stereotypical ideals of how _a_ moment somehow makes all the pain, death, and grief one has felt _worth_ it. It’s a lie. They are separate states of being. And because of one you appreciate the other more, but the positive does not make the negative _worth_ it. Because pain has no worth. Grief has no score to even. And death promises no relief after, at least not for the ones left behind.

 

But nights like tonight, in their infinite stillness, she thinks she understands what the point is within their naïve ideals. Because as her hands quietly slide from one scarred trail to the next she feels it. That elusive feeling she only feels when the weight of living is completely lifted. Her mind doesn’t feel so heavy and her chest releases its constant tension. She is not a leader, doctor, sky person, mass murderer, prisoner, _Wanheda_ , or a legend. She is simply one thing: a lover. And in the most intimate, provocative sense of the term, she welcomes it.

 

Its when she reaches this state that she no longer sees his body for the damage that has been caused to it, or the power that surges beneath. Because though those things forever remain, she longs for something deeper that it offers. That _he_ offers, unapologetically and so willingly. _Connection_. When she is with him in these moments she’s reminded that she’s never been in this alone. He’d walk through fire with her not because she deserves that kind of loyalty (she doesn’t) or because he trusts her (even though he does), but because they are one.

 

It’s been true even before it was. _Written in the stars_ , Lincoln said once. She had scoffed at the idea. She lived amongst the stars. They know about as much about human destiny as she does. But she’s watched the stars a little closer since.

 

She listens to the rumble of his chest as her head rises and falls with the motion of his breathing. The fire across their modest room — their _home_ — has dulled and the resonating warmth is starting to be defeated by the winter chill they live amongst. She relishes the warmth of his skin and is nearly lulled to sleep until she cranes her neck to glance up at him. He’s propped up against the mountain of feather pillows he insists on having, a book securely in one hand, while the other arm rests around her relaxed frame. She feels his fingers dip beneath the hem of her worn underwear from time to time and there is something revitalizing about their comfortable nature.

 

She scans his familiar features, quietly amused by the secondhand reading glasses he now has to wear. They found them on a raid last spring. He’d originally kept them in a box of other misplaced earthly things he’d found fascinating. Until one night he realized their usefulness in helping him read the small print of his beloved tales. He tells no one and she has sworn herself to secrecy as well, because as foolish as it seems, she loves having something just between them. Yet another piece of their own little world that she protects.

 

Her eyes then move to the book in his hand. The yellowing pages look familiar even to her. _The Iliad_. One of his favorites. He’d spoke of it animated one morning over breakfast, long before this moment. She remembers the way he told the tales from within the epic poem. She remembers how everyone hung on his ever word. How even in the midst of their constant hell at the time, they all seemed to find a second of normality within his graphic retelling. Most of his audience was captivated by his eloquent storytelling. She was mesmerized by his passion.

 

When she had returned she’d seen him reading the book one day, alone. She’d asked where he’d found it. He hadn’t answered her, not directly. _A gift, while you were gone_. The bridge of their relationship was still badly damaged. She’d seen him with Gina later that week. She knew then and a foreign sour feeling formed in her stomach. She had wanted to avoid the feeling, but soon she found it a source of her healing. She allowed it. She _deserved_ it. And now she was grateful for the book. For Gina. Because he needed her then. He needed a peace she wasn’t able to offer him. Gina was an aloe to his destruction and for that she was thankful.

 

All of the books that lined their bookshelf — a gift from Miller and Monty several years ago — had been read multiple times. But this specific piece had been a staple for his nightly tradition. He had told her once that it was a source of personal inspiration. Not only because of how it had been introduced into his life via his mother, but also because no matter the season of living he could find reasoning within these pages. She had been envious for that kind of mental glue at the time. Now she soaked in his shared knowledge. Allowing his words to sink into her mind, just as he had absorbed into every other part of her being.

 

Normally, after _other_ private rituals, he would read late into the night. She learned early on he rarely needed more than five hours of sleep to be considered functional. And she would drift off to the rhythmic way his fingers ran across her skin, but tonight she continues to crave their intimacy. Still longs for him.

 

Slowly she twists her body to be more securely against his. She makes no sudden movements, but instead allows their bodies to naturally begin to twist together as he continues to read. Her hand snakes farther across the plains of his stomach, the furs resting across his waist sliding just enough for her to see the delicious V cut that causes her excitement to grow. She lets her fingers tangle slightly in the hairs that trail down past their blankets.

 

His body betrays his intentions, before his mind does. She can see the way his muscles tense beneath her touch as she skims the lines of his toned abdomen. And with silent pleasure, she sees the way the furs react to the growing erection beneath their warmth. Then she feels the hand that had been resting against her hip start to move upward. Along the sensitive skin of her rip cage. Goosebumps grow in its wake and she shivers against him.

 

Leaning atop him, her lips connect with the trail her fingers are beginning to make. She feels him move to set his beloved book aside, before she hears the soft click of his glasses being gingerly discarded as well. Her chapped lips curl into a victorious smile as she starts to move upward. Just as her tongue flicks across one of his nipples he begins to speak.

 

“Touched with her secret key, the door unfolds: self-closed, behind her shut the valves of gold.”

 

His words are barely above a whisper. The gravel in his voice is directly connected to the junction between her thighs. She should be ashamed at how wet she is for him, but they are far past embarrassment and shame. They know every inch and tarnish of each other and still lavish in the beauty.

 

His own hands don’t stay passive for long, as she feels his palm press against her spine just below the curve of her back. He’s pulling her closer as he moves the piles of furs away from their bodies. The cool air instantly chills her, but the feeling is quickly forgotten when she catches sight of his proud erection. Her mouth waters at the sight. She allows her hand to trail down only long enough to tease the tip, where a drop of precum has appeared. Looking him in the eye, she reaches up and licks the salty substance off her fingertips, making quite the show of the whole thing.

 

Her practically growls as he continues, “Here first she bathes; and round her body pours soft oils of fragrance, and ambrosial showers.”

 

There is more than one reason she has found to be thankful for his continual need for the written word, but the intoxicating way he recites it has got to be one of her favorites. And she shows her appreciation by slowly stroking him with one hand as she wiggles herself out of her one piece of clothing. Once her panties are somewhere near the foot of the bed, she makes quick work of straddling his hips. But she doesn’t make connection, not yet.

 

Instead she hoovers above him, her hands slowly trailing up his arms before coming to rest atop his shoulders. She feels his hands gripping against her hips. He doesn’t pull her toward him because he’s too much like her. They are enjoying this torturous game just as much as they are enjoying each other. Because this moment between then, this _before_ time, further solidifies the connection they constantly crave.

 

Her forehead presses against his and she feels the warmth of his breath against her lips as he recites, “Her artful hands the radiant tresses tied; part on her head in shining ringlets rolled. Part over her shoulders waved like melted gold.”

 

He lets his arms loop around her body then from under her arms, finding purchase at the base of her neck. He lets his fingers tangle in the hairs there and she leans forward to melt their lips into a warm, slow kiss. She sighs into him then, her bare breasts running against his chest. Her hips take on a mind of their own as she grinds against him willingly and she feels his hips move with hers in kind. Her wetness creates such excellent friction that she moans into his mouth without shame.

 

His aroused chuckle melts with his words, “Around her next a heavenly mantle flowed, large clasps of gold the foldings gathered round, a golden zone her swelling bosom bound.”

 

She’d probably poke fun of the chosen lingo, if she weren’t completely gone because of it. Her skin glistens against his and she glances down at their connected chests. She has always been so engrossed by their contrasting features. His beautiful, sun-kissed, freckled skin touches her creamy, porcelain-like tone. His structured, rough edges press against her soft curves. His reckless, all-telling expressions mold into her schooled, refined gestures. And they fit perfectly.  

 

They are beautiful.

 

“Let heaven’s dread empress, speak her request, and deem her will obeyed.” He leans in now, his lips against her ear as he speaks. And she’s nothing if not a lost cause. With one easy rise of her hips, she’s gliding him toward her entrance and lowering herself onto him. His words only falter momentarily as he sighs, “Then grant me those conquering charms, that power, which mortals and immortals warms.”

 

Their coupling isn’t rushed and her pleasure builds and deflates several times over. There are times when this would be a frustration to her, but right now she welcomes the prolonged pleasure. She begs for his hands to remain on her forever and she wishes to be enveloped in his passions for eternity.

 

His lips run sloppily down the long column of her neck as throws her head back when he hits a particularly pleasurable spot within her.   Her nails rack against his shoulder like slow torture and it causes him to nip at her collarbone. Marks she will curse him for in the morning, but tonight she wants all he has to offer.

 

“That love, which melts mankind in fierce desires, and burns the sons of heaven with sacred fires.”

 

She whimpers, throwing her arms around his neck as her hips find a delicious rhythm that they both seem to enjoy. His hands are at the small of her back, gripping the swell of her ass as she grinds on top of him so perfectly. One hand comes to rest against his cheek as her lips messily move against his. Wild, unharnessed, and unrushed.

 

“Bellamy.” She gasps as her orgasm washes over her in waves. It’s a slow, delirious build in her that causes every piece of her being to buzz with energy. He tucks his head against her shoulder as she feels his muscles tense around her; his own release coursing through him in a disarming way.

 

His grip leaving bruises he’ll apologize for later, profusely. He’ll kiss, lick, and nip at them. Tickle her as she tries to get ready the next morning, while he’s sitting at the foot of the bed in front of her. She should be wise and pull away from his boyish advances. But she’s weak around him, even the morning after. _Always_. And even before it’s happened, she knows it will.

 

They don’t move away from each other quickly, because both are still unwilling to let it go just yet. She allows herself to pull away only enough to run her lips down his temple. Her nose brushing against the damp curls that frame his face. She feels his hands sliding down the curve of her thighs on either side of him.

 

“In this was every art, and every charm, to win the wisest, and the coldest warm. Fond love, the gentle vow, the gay desire, the kind deceit, the still-reviving fire,” He slowly finishes, his voice echoing off the skin of her neck. “Persuasive speech, and the more persuasive sighs, silence that spoke, and eloquence of eyes.”

 

She smiles against his cheek, untangling herself from him. Only whimpering slightly when she moves from his lap to lie once again next to him. He smiles over her, moving to cover them both up once more with the furs. But instead of continuing his previous activity, he comes to lay with her. His face is inches from hers as they simply stare at one another.

 

Her hand comes to rest on his cheek, her finger running over his lips before she leans forward to place a simple kiss to them.

 

“There is the heat of love, the pulsing rush of longing, the lover’s whisper, irresistible,” She speaks this time, the quote he as read to her time and time again, as she snuggles down against his chest.

 

He smiles, kissing atop her head before he finishes, “Magic to make the sanest man go mad.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed! Definitely let me know what you think! And come say hey over on Tumblr (fourfinick)!


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